


You'll Know What Makes The World Turn

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Breathplay, Canon Compliant, Choking, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom Louis, Fluff, Kink Negotiation, M/M, PWP, Restraints, Sub Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 11:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15435726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Sometimes, when things are messy and they have more than a few weeks apart, they need the reminder. It’s comforting to have stars to map your course by.or, Harry's blue bandana is a day collar.





	You'll Know What Makes The World Turn

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic because my good friend did me an enormous favor and I wanted to repay her. Plus, there were a bunch of posts getting thrown around about the blue bandana being a day collar, and I couldn't resist saying something filthy about it. I love you very much April, and I'm super grateful for our friendship. I hope you like this! 
> 
> Thanks Jen as always! For making sure my sex scenes actually make sense and aren't just a jumble of limbs and lube.
> 
> Title from the Depeche Mode Song Blue Dress, which is so very Louis and Harry.

It’s worn soft and smells like Louis’s cologne, the knot frayed from so many tyings and untyings, unobtrusive enough that no one notices, and those who _do_ notice just view it as a sweet love token or something similarly innocuous. Harry supposes that’s the point of a day collar, anyway. To say what’s unsaid, to get away with being owned publicly. To slip through the cracks, invisible. 

—-

Harry started wearing it because of some fan project, back when it still felt important for the way that he loved Louis to be _seen_ , witnessed. But one night, while they were still sweat-slick from a show, Louis hooked his fingers into the soaked cotton and pulled Harry close, whiskey on his breath as he murmured, “Like this on you, like seeing me on you,” like the bandana was a ring of love bites, his come, something _more_ than what it actually was.

That’s all it took for it to gain symbolic weight, meaning. For Harry to feel special and cherished in that hot, squirmy, stomach-turning sort of way he feels whenever Louis buys him something, whenever Louis lays an outfit out on the bed and he knows that he’s expected to wear it. 

When Harry puts the bandana on, he _feels_ different, aware of its weight, its softness, the way that its presence changes how he holds himself, morphing him from just a boy into _Louis’s_ boy. When he decides to wear it, sometimes it’s just for himself, but other times, he’ll send Louis a picture or slip into the bedroom from the shower with nothing on but the bandana around his neck and a towel around his waist, prompting Louis to ask, “You wearin’ that for me?” with that knowing, hot-blue glint in his eyes. 

And then Harry gets to say, “ _Yes,_ yes, for you,” meaning not just the collar but the whole of him, every inch. _Wear it when you're not here, to remember you. Wear it when you are here, so that you’ll pull me in by it, twist it so the knot pushes up against my windpipe and I can hardly breathe. Wear it so we both know that, no matter what, I’m yours._

Sometimes, when things are messy and they have more than a few weeks apart, they need the reminder. It’s comforting to have stars to map your course by. 

_—-_

Harry likes to get papped in it, so that when Louis sees the pictures, he’ll know what he was thinking about. He’ll know that Harry was walking around an airport or having lunch in Hollywood or leaving a recording studio, dreaming of being on his knees for Louis, his mouth full, his hands tied. 

Because Harry never wears it idly or unintentionally. There’s never a time that he puts it on without considering what it means. If he’s wearing it, he’s thinking of Louis. Of being Louis’s. Of pleasing Louis. And if Louis sees, then _he’s_ thinking about it, too. 

Harry can point to some other pap shot the next time they’re together and murmur against the shell of Louis’s ear, “Was missing you, here,” or even, “Was wearing the knickers you got me under my jeans in this shot,” and Louis will hold him a bit closer, or gasp and bite him and roll him onto his back to punish him for being so naughty, but it’s not the same, exactly. They have to have a conversation about it after the fact. Harry has to use words, and those can be so hard, sometimes. 

But when he wears the bandana, it’s just out there in the open, like spilled blood. He doesn’t need to confess because the bandana _itself_ is a confession. A message to Louis and Louis alone: _my neck belongs to you forever and always, and I can see one hundred other people, shake their hands, and let them take pictures of me, but not a single one of them knows that I’m thinking about how good it feels when you choke me._

It’s a picture in a locket that only Louis has the key to, a message in invisible ink that only Louis can decode. It’s nice, sometimes, for Harry to just put it on without having to actually say, _I want you to know that I’m thinking about you._ It’s easy to get tired of words when you're having strangers put them in your mouth all the time. 

_—-_

Harry ties the bandana around his neck and wears it all morning, from their Hollywood house to Starbucks to lunch in Malibu and back. He runs into enough fans that there are pictures on the Internet almost immediately, and he's not sure if Louis sees them, but he hopes so. 

Louis’s flying in from London today, and he’s at the house waiting by the time Harry gets back, chin rough with a few days’ worth of stubble that scrapes Harry’s skin when he pulls him close and buries his face in his neck. “Look at you,” he says gently, hands sliding under the warm cotton of Harry’s shirt, thumbing into the indents between his abdominal muscles. It’s grounding, maddening. It always is. “Parading yourself all over LA with me around your neck.” 

Harry shudders, stomach swooping and knees getting that familiar weak, wobbly feeling. “Wanted you to see,” he admits, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of Louis’s sweatpants to keep himself steady. “Missed you.” 

“Missed you, too, baby,” Louis whispers quietly, breath hot against Harry’s lips before he kisses him hard, robbing him of whatever balance he was struggling to maintain. Harry crumbles, landing on the couch in seconds, clawing for Louis with greedy hands. “No,” Louis orders firmly, still standing, making a fist in the bandana and giving it a firm, sharp yank. The cotton burns the back of Harry’s neck, and his mouth floods with spit. “Upstairs, love...gonna tie you to the headboard. You’re too grabby.” 

Louis’s voice is even, but his eyes are wild in the way they get when he wants Harry just as badly as Harry wants him, when he's so needy and hungry for it that he knows he has to implement rules, force them both to wait lest he come sooner than he wants to. It feels dangerous, the sort of out-of-control that’s still safe, like an amusement park ride, and Harry’s heart is pounding at the thrill of it. “Okay, daddy,” he mumbles, making himself get up, swallowing under the pressure of Louis’s knuckles against his throat as he helps pull him upright by the bandana. “Gonna tie me up with my collar on?” 

Louis fondly smooths his fingers over the soft, worn blue, his head cocking. “Sort of wanna tie you up _with_ your collar, if I can get this stupid little knot undone.” 

Harry whimpers, following Louis as he leads him up the stairs, fist in the bandana like it’s a leash. “You can...it unties,” he promises, already hot and itchy at the thought of his collar _doubling_ as a restraint. He loves it when Louis fucks him from behind and chokes him out with the bandana at the same time, when he uses it to hold onto like reins, but the idea of it cutting the circulation off in his wrists is equally titillating. He loves all the ways Louis controls his blood flow, his breath, puts him in place.

They make it to the bedroom, and Harry wastes no time kicking off his shoes and trousers, collapsing onto his back on the bed in nothing but his bandana, a white V-neck, and his pants, which are threadbare and strained lewdly over his half-hard cock. Obediently, he puts his hands over his head, and Louis looks down at him, rubbing at his chin with his fingers, shaking his head. “You’re the prettiest thing,” he marvels, brushing his knuckles over Harry’s erection, breath catching when it twitches. “My pretty baby. All collared up for me, waiting for me to come home.” 

“Put it on my wrists,” Harry begs, knowing that he’s being inarticulate, voice low and saliva-garbled in his throat. Louis does this to him, makes him dumb and desperate, wanting things so badly that he doesn’t even know how to ask for them. Louis smooths a hand up his leg, touch gentle and teasing before he smacks the inside of his thigh hard enough for the flesh to undulate, turn a smarting pink from the impact. Harry winces and groans, back arching off the bed. “ _Please,_ daddy,” he gasps, already so far under. 

“Jesus, you're gagging for it,” Louis says, laughing a little bit, awed more than amused. “It’s been, like, four days, Hazza, can’t believe you still get so slutty so fast,” he teases, climbing up onto the bed and straddling Harry’s hips, trapping them against the bed with his weight. “Turn your bandana this way, so I can see the knot, yeah?” 

Harry does as he’s told, eyes tear-hazy, fingers clumsy. Louis’s right, he’s fast and easy, but that’s what _happens_ when he wears a fucking collar in public for a whole entire day. It messes with his head, makes a sloppy disaster of him, puts him under even before Louis’s there to do it himself. “Here,” he slurs, fiddling with the knot. 

Louis bats his hands away gently. “S’okay, baby, I’ve got it.” 

“Yeah?” Harry asks thickly, trying to soften even as his heart races.

“Yeah, you just lie back. Be my good boy.” 

_Good boy_ settles him, makes him feel warm and molassesy, taken care of. Louis carefully undoes the knot, tongue delicately pressed to the corner of his mouth, and, _god,_ Harry wants to kiss him so badly. Instead, he just thinks about it, waiting patiently for Louis to tug the bandana off from around his neck, tangle it around his wrists, and tie Harry’s hands to their wrought-iron headboard. “Gonna be a shit restraint, s’not long enough to get more than a loop or two in, so you can’t pull too hard. Gotta be good for me.” Louis explains, eyebrows raised. He’s hard in his trackies, and Harry’s staring, mouth watering for it. 

“Yeah, I’ll be good,” he vows before pulling his lip between his teeth. He shivers as Louis ties him up, fingers deft and soft against his skin, against the worn fabric, like he’s worried about tearing something. Once the knots are done, Harry tugs curiously, just to see. And yeah, he _could_ get free if he was a brat about it, but he doesn't want to be a brat today. He wants to be Louis’s good boy, wants to do whatever Louis says, fit himself into the vacancy between his cupped palms. 

“Good,” Louis praises, standing up to get his clothes off, making a long show of it because he _knows_ that Harry can only really handle stripping when he can _touch._ This is just cruel, his hands bound while Louis teases, rolls his sweats and pants down over his plump, golden thighs, abdominals rippling in this way that Harry could _taste_ if he were close enough, if he were allowed to spread his mouth over the twitching planes of muscle. “I want your pretty cock,” Louis says idly, rubbing a hand delicately up his chest, splaying it over his heartbeat. “Think you can give daddy that?” 

God, _god,_ Harry can. That and more, a million things. “Fuck,” he sobs, head lolling back on the mattress. “ _Yeah.”_

 _“_ Yeah?” Louis echoes noncommittally, squeezing Harry’s hard dick through his pants, hand warm and heavy and electric. “Gonna eat me bum good, so m’all wet for you?” he asks then, grabbing one of his own cheeks before letting it go, forcing Harry to watch. 

“Please,” Harry groans, licking his lips and tugging weakly at his restraints, hips reckless and lifted in the air as Louis circles ever closer. “Wanna taste, daddy,” he admits in a reedy whine. He’s _begging_ at this point, so Louis gives him what he wants, humming lightly while he throws a leg over the side of the bed and sits on Harry’s face so fucking _easily,_ grabbing the headboard and spreading himself so that Harry can get at the tight, hungry clench of his hole. It’s been _weeks_ since Harry got him like this, it isn’t always a part of what they do regularly, so Harry’s fucking _pathetic_ for it, a mess of drool and desperation as Louis grinds down onto his tongue. 

“Get me all wet, baby boy,” Louis orders before his words dissolve into breathless gasps. He takes a hand off the wrought iron to make a fist in Harry's curls, pulling him close, choking him before lifting away so that Harry can suck in a wet, much needed breath. “Get daddy’s hole all sloppy for your cock.” 

Harry whines, blood pounding in his ears. It’s so much to deal with—Louis all over him, on top of him, smothering him, _immobilizing him with his bandana collar_ —that he’s already close, oversensitive, shuddery. He laps at Louis’s tight hole, drunk on the spicy, musky taste, making sure to push his spit out in a froth so that he’s _extra wet,_ extra messy. Louis needs a lot of prep, so he’ll likely get the lube out anyway, but Harry gets off on the idea of him not needing it, of Harry’s mouth being soft and wet and slick enough to open him up. “Jesus,” Louis hisses, holding his cheeks apart and bearing down, breath coming out in wild, frantic huffs as he grinds on Harry’s tongue. “So perfect, Hazza, god, so good.” 

Harry loves being good, loves being perfect. Loves Louis telling him that he’s doing it _right_. He can’t breathe, but he doesn’t _care,_ he just wants to get him ready, wants him to feel so good. There are stars behind his eyes when Louis finally pulls away, leaving him dizzy, a messy trickle of drool trailing down Harry’s chin. “You gonna ride my cock, daddy?” he asks when he can speak again, blinking his vision out of haziness while Louis mounts him, pets his face, his hair, hands soft and sure and warm. 

“So impatient,” Louis tuts, fingering himself open by the sounds of it, his voice shot and strained, his arm flexing behind his own back. “You just lie there, baby...be patient.” 

Patience is _hard._ Harry groans and throws his head back, refusing to watch Louis fiddle with the lube that he’s fished out of the bedside table. Instead, he works on messing with his wrist restraint, yanking it hard enough to make his skin sting but not hard enough to undo the knot. The struggle is just a game because he doesn’t _really_ want to be free. He only wants Louis to punish him for trying. 

Sure enough, Louis eventually smacks his wrist sharply, fingers sticky with lube. “What did I _just_ tell you?” he asks, feigning exasperation even as the corners of his mouth turn up. He's fucking beautiful up close like this, sex-bright blue eyes, cheeks shiny and red, hair going grey at the sides and shaved close enough to be soft under Harry’s palms if Harry were allowed to touch it. He whimpers, not because Louis’s smack smarts but because being tied up makes him _crazy,_ mindlessly hungry and desperate under Louis, palms itching to touch, mouth flooding to suck. 

“Sorry,” he mewls, making fists and shifting beneath Louis’s weight. “Just want you.” 

“Bet you do,” Louis murmurs, back to fucking himself, wincing before he gasps, mouth parting prettily. “Want daddy sitting on that pretty cock, riding it, fucking you into the mattress, not letting you come.” He reaches down between Harry’s thighs to cup him with slick fingers. “So hard, you want it so bad, don’t you,” he adds, sounding awed, and Harry’s always so moved to notice the cracks in Louis’s armor, the places where he’s frayed, too. 

“ _So bad_ , daddy, let me have your hole, _please,”_ Harry begs, cheeks burning in shame, voice thick with saliva. He loves when Louis talks dirty to him, but doing it himself always makes him hot-faced and sick-feeling, stomach so knotted in humiliation that he can’t tell the difference between nausea and arousal. “Wore my collar all day for you.” 

Louis’s face softens at that, like caramel sauce melting into a bowl of ice cream, sweet and slow. “My good boy,” he singsongs, wrapping his fingers firmly around Harry’s length and tugging, breath caught visibly in his throat. “Know you’re mine, always mine.” 

There’s an agonizingly long minute where Louis opens a condom slowly and teasingly rolls it down Harry’s length, taking his sweet fucking time, his touch so fleeting and fake-clinical that Harry could _cry. “_ Look at you,” he purrs, reaching down to squeeze Harry’s balls in his palm gently. “Were you hard all day? Wearing your collar and thinking about how much you belong to daddy?” 

“Yeah,” Harry slurs, even though it’s only half-true. Or all true but half-hard. “Been wanting you. Thinking about it.” 

“Trying so hard to be patient,” Louis adds lightly, climbing back on top of him, leaning down to press a few lingering kisses to Harry’s chest tattoos, his ribs. “You want my bum now, baby?”

“God, fuck, _please,”_ Harry moans, but he doesn’t even fully believe it’s happening until he feels it. Louis aligning himself, holding Harry’s cock where he wants it as he lowers down slowly enough that the muscles in his thighs spasm, his abdominals reduced to delicious flickers under golden skin. It takes him a bit of time, but Harry doesn’t care; it feels so fucking good to nudge up between Louis’s cheeks, crown catching on his worked-open hole even if it doesn't sink in yet. It feels so good to be _teased,_ to bemade to wait. 

When his cock-head finally does breach, Louis makes the prettiest fucking noise, and Harry’s heart clenches spectacularly. “Jesus _fuck_ ,” Louis yelps in his regular voice, as opposed to his daddy voice. “You’re so fucking big, Harry. Feel so goddamned full, even like this.” 

Harry squirms, reining himself in, blinking back tears. “Good, though, Lou? We can do something else if it’s too—”

“No, no, s’good, s’perfect,” Louis interrupts, shaking his head. “God, I should’ve known you’d get all vain and dumb about it if I said anything,” he says, face splitting into a smile, breath huffing out of him unevenly. “Just...miss you. Missed you inside of me.” 

“Missed you, too,” Harry croaks, relaxing back into the trembly, submerged feeling of being Louis’s baby. His eyes sweep up Louis’s quaking thighs before allowing them to rest on his pretty cock, so hard and flushed and dripping. “Weren’t you gonna ride me, daddy?” he asks sweetly, licking his lips. 

Louis smiles and nods, sinking down another few agonizing inches before pulling back off. “Gotta be patient,” he chides gently, spreading his hands on Harry’s chest to steady himself. “Look so pretty like this, hands over your head, all spread out for me.” 

Harry remembers that he's tied and gets frustrated all over again, tugging at the fabric wrapped around his wrists and rolling his hips, gasping at the friction. This isn’t _enough,_ any of it, he wants Louis sitting down, he wants Louis’s tongue in his mouth, _something._ But Louis loves him so much, is the perfect daddy, can _read his mind_ about this sort of stuff, so Harry only struggles for a few seconds before Louis puts him out of his misery. 

“Shhh, baby, _god,_ so fucking greedy,” Louis teases, holding Harry down, fingers digging into the slats between his ribs as he lowers himself again. “Just gagging for your daddy’s tight bum, yeah?” he gets out as he takes the final inch or so, the backs of his thighs suddenly hot and heavy on Harry’s, weighing him into the mattress. 

He’s so _hot_ inside, hot enough that it steals Harry’s breath away, stuns him silent. He barely has time to recover before Louis’s lifting up and slamming back down, whimpering, face screwed up, sweat dripping from the elegant line of his nose to Harry's stomach. “Fuck, Lou,” Harry pants, thrusting to meet him, gasping at the way Louis cries out and backs himself up sluttily, the curve in his back something like poetry. “S’really good.” 

“Better be,” Louis grins sort of deliriously, cock leaking as it twitches. “You’re big and m’tight, and as much as I like it, it _hurts_ , so m’not gonna last long,” he warns, grinding down lewdly before arching his back, working Harry’s length with his perfect arse like fucking is an art that he’s dedicated his entire life to. Harry nods, whining, feeling very lucky. 

“Daddy,” Harry grits out, yanking at his restraint, stomach swooping as Louis bears down on him before he starts riding in earnest, bouncing on his cock with those gorgeous thighs flexing. He’s so fucking pretty, so fit and golden, mouth open and long lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he slides up and down and back up again. Harry knows that he’s _technically_ doing the actual fucking, that he’s inside Louis, but it doesn’t feel like that, necessarily. It feels like _Louis_ is fucking him, riding him into the mattress, throwing his body weight so efficiently that Harry’s breath huffs out involuntarily with each stroke. Tied immobile to the headboard, he feels like a dildo, a fuck doll, a toy for Louis to get himself off on, and it’s so fucking hot that the mere idea of it gets him dangerously close, shuddering in a sheen of sweat as Louis bounces on him. 

“Daddy—Lou, m’gonna come,” he warns, and Louis makes a broken sound, smoothing his hands wildly all over Harry’s torso, up to his frantic heartbeat. 

“Yeah, come in me, baby, give it to your daddy, fill me up,” he babbles, and if the raw, tattered sound of his voice isn't enough to push Harry over the edge, the feeling of one of his hands sliding up and tightening around his throat, pushing his weight into the wild thunder of his pulse, certainly is. Harry struggles to breathe, not even able to make a noise as he comes gasping under the pressure of Louis’s perfect, absolving hands. 

He’s not even finished emptying himself when Louis loosens his grip, just for a second, so that Harry can suck in a desperate breath. Then he’s choking him out again, with both hands this time, one on each side of his windpipe. Harry struggles because he fucking _loves_ that chafing feeling of Louis’s hot palms on delicate skin, and the friction keeps his cock pulsing and twitching as he loses his vision in big sparkling swaths of static, his mind dizzy and needy, nothing but a haze of _please_ and _daddy._

Louis lets up, and Harry coughs on an inhalation as the world materializes amid the stars. He groans once he can see right again because Louis’s still sitting on his cock, holding himself up with one hand while he wanks furiously with the other, fingers a blur, everything sweat-wet and messy. Louis throws his head back and cries out as he comes all over his own fist and Harry’s obliques, thick, hot, white ribbons that Harry wishes were in his mouth, but whatever. This is enough. Louis’s arse clenching madly around his spent, sensitive cock, Louis’s come burning on his skin. Louis everywhere, Harry’s wrists tied up in him, his throat sore from him. 

He’s sort of crying when Louis finally climbs off, rolls the condom over his twitching cock, and disappears into the ensuite for a few seconds to throw it away before coming back with a glass of water and some tissues. “Aww, Hazza, baby,” he coos gently, sidling up next to him and kissing his shoulders, his cheeks, the red, angry skin around his neck. “You alright?” 

Harry nods, testing his ability to talk by rasping out a wobbly, “Wonderful.” 

“That’s my good boy,” Louis praises gently, tilting the water glass to Harry’s lips and holding it steady while he takes a few messy sips. Drips roll down his chin, but the water is cool and feels amazing on his flushed skin, so he doesn’t even care. “Here, lemme untie you so that you can hold it yourself,” Louis murmurs, setting the glass down before peering at the knot. “Shit, hope I won’t have to cut you out of this...you pulled the knot pretty tight.” 

Harry whimpers, cock pulsing. He isn’t sure why, but the idea of having to be cut out of his restraints makes his stomach swoop, even if he doesn't want to destroy the bandana itself. It’s special to him, more than just an easily replaceable bit of blue fabric. “Ta-dah!” Louis announces after fiddling with the knot for a few minutes. He pulls the bandana off, and Harry flexes his tingling hands, slowly lowering them to his chest but not before Louis presses a few tender kisses to the marks on his wrists, lips so soft and warm. 

“Thank you,” Harry croaks, still feeling like he’s floating, eyes still stinging with tears. Louis’s combing his fingers through his hair, nuzzling into his still-tender neck, kissing every bit of Harry that he might have hurt while they were playing. “You’re so...I dunno. Love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Louis tells him, thumbing over Harry’s lips before dipping down and kissing them, fierce and hot. They’ve hardly kissed today, so Harry feels starved for it, licking into the heat of Louis’s mouth, desperate for his spit, his salt. “Hey,” Louis whispers, pressing their brows together. “That water...want you to drink it all for me, yeah? Before we get too carried away snogging.” 

“Okay, yeah,” Harry agrees, even though he wants nothing more than to get carried away snogging. “Can I have my collar back?” he asks after a few careful sips, throat burning each time. He feels incomplete without it, like he _needs_ the familiar weight and softness of it to soothe the burn of having been choked, to bring him back up from the slow, messy place that he so easily gets mired in after Louis fucks him like this.

“Of course, baby,” Louis smiles as he fishes it out of the duvet and brings it up to Harry’s neck, looping it around gently before tying the ends together, kissing the knot like he’s sealing a love letter. “It drives me absolutely mad to see you wearing it,” he confesses, raising his eyebrows. Harry must look skeptical because Louis laughs, knocking their shoulders together. “Really, I mean it, I turn into an absolute mess. Should’ve seen me in the Uber on the way back from the airport, I was, like, trying to hide my boner, fantasizing about how good it was gonna feel to have your cock in me. Counting down the minutes until I could see you all collared up for me in person.” 

Harry blushes, finishing the glass of water before draping himself dramatically over Louis to put it back on the bedside table. “I feel like m’just greedy, wearing it. Like, it’s about me riling myself up more than it is about riling you up.” 

“Well,” Louis says fondly, snuffling his hair. “You aren’t the only one who gets off on you being mine.” 

And Harry supposes that’s true. He tilts into Louis, pressing his face into his shoulder and catching the bandana between Louis’s body and his own cheek. He inhales from it, eyes fluttering closed. It’s worn soft and smells like Louis’s cologne, the knot frayed from so many tyings and untyings, and alongside Louis himself, his sure hands and high, raspy voice, it feels like home. 

Harry closes his eyes and exhales. 

 

 


End file.
